


Red

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Brief Graphic Violence, Consent Issues, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Paris - Freeform, Power Imbalance, Presents, Red Riding Hood Elements, Red Riding Hood Fusion, Rituals, Seduction, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt for the Fairy Tale Fusion meme: Arrow, Red Riding Hood</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for brief graphic violence and death of an OC, and consent issues due to the power imbalance of the couple.

Nyssa's title is Vattiyamma, an honorific to show respect for her position in the league. It originally meant grandmother, but over time it came to mean a matriarch or leader. She is called Commander in the field; honorifics are for ears that have earned the privilege of knowing them. But the old titles are still used in rituals,and Sara always thinks it's strange to hear a girl her own age called grandma.

They're fond of rituals, the League. They're an amalgam of traditions that the League has picked up and twisted to make their own, an odd collage of languages and beliefs and habits, and probably some things they just made up themselves, but Sara knows better than to question their authenticity.

Some of their rituals are mentioned but no longer performed. After a training session, the custom for a long time was for the warrior-in-training to kneel in front of the master, who would be sitting, and place his or her head on the master's knees. This is called the ritual of gratitude, to indicate that the young warrior submits to further lessons and appreciates the secret knowledge bestowed (Sara thinks a lot of League rituals are pretty close to things you’d find in a dungeon in certain areas of Starling City, but she definitely has the sense not to say this either). 

This custom of gratitude, however, has fallen out of favor; Nyssa once told Sara that it was because years ago -- not any more, Nyssa assured her -- a typical training session would cause great damage to the trainee's body, and this ritual was a way for the master to inspect their health. Sara wanted to ask if, in the old days, the master would have treated the student's wounds or just killed him for being weak. But she didn't ask (she never asks).

\--

Once, after a hard practice, after Sara really thought she wouldn’t survive this training, that the exhaustion would kill her, she asked Nyssa to end practice early. It was the only time she was brave enough to make a request like that.

Nyssa said no. But for once, she explained her reason: stopping early would make her weak, and she cared too much about Sara’s potential to let her be weak.

Sara had closed her eyes, then nodded and went back to work.

When practice was finally done, she said, half joking, “I could do the ritual of gratitude now.”

Amused, Nyssa raised her eyebrows. She sat in a chair and smirked, waiting to see if Sara would.

Sara knelt in front of her, rested her head on Nyssa’s knees. She moved then, sliding her head down so she could kiss the inside of Nyssa’s thigh.

“You know how much I adore that,” Nyssa said, “But do the ritual with respect.”

Sara sighed and placed her head back on Nyssa’s knee. After a moment, Nyssa’s hand reached up to stroke Sara’s head, gentle fingers running through her hair.

This, Sara knew, could not possibly be a faithful version of the ritual. 

Sara realized suddenly that Nyssa felt something for her other than pity and desire. And it struck her then that when Nyssa said she cared about Sara’s potential, it was because Nyssa didn’t know how to say she cared about Sara.

Nyssa was powerful, dangerous, and she owned Sara, more or less. She was alluring and Sara was definitely attracted to her, but Sara didn’t often forget who Nyssa was and what that meant. But in that moment, as Nyssa glided her fingers softly through the sweat-soaked strands of Sara’s hair, Sara realized that Nyssa wasn’t made of ice and steel; Nyssa wanted to take care of her.

And for the first time since Starling City, Sara felt, for a moment, safe.

\--

When Sara’s training is complete, and Nyssa has overseen her first few missions, Nyssa takes a trip. Sara realizes then that Nyssa has been neglecting her duties to watch over her. She should feel guilty, but she’s pleased. Proud, a little.

Sara obeys the orders of the League commander she is assigned to while Nyssa is away. She does well (she knows her performance reflects on Nyssa, she knows that Nyssa took a risk by vouching for her).

After months, all of them lonely, Sara receives a message, written in code, delivered by one the League’s most trusted messengers. 

Nyssa wants Sara to visit her. And not for a mission.

Sara feels a relief, a gratitude, wash over her, like cool water raining down on a man dying of thirst, and then thinks that there was a time she would have never let a boyfriend or girlfriend have this kind of power over her. 

But all Sara does now is killing, keeping silent, and maintaining her level of training, and so Nyssa is the only part of her life that actually _feels_ like life.

Sara packs her favorite clothes, the ones that she wears on missions that make Nyssa stare at her a little longer than she should. The ship she is travelling on docks for a night so the crew can do some business – probably smuggling -- on the coast of France, and Sara uses the day to ride up to Paris so she can go shopping for gifts. Nyssa doesn’t need jewels or purses, so Sara picks things that Nyssa can enjoy during the few days they’ll have together. The best chocolates she can find, confections of bitter dark chocolate and intense bursts of flavors from rare fruits. Fine perfume that Sara finds intoxicating; she hopes desperately Nyssa will like it too. Massage oils. Silk scarves – to wear or to tie each other up – colorful, impeccable. 

She is nervous about seeing Nyssa again. It is partly the anticipation of lovers who meet again, but it is more than that. There is still a part of Sara that wonders if it is her job to keep Nyssa excited about her, and what might happen if she doesn’t. She’s not sure yet if this is seduction or survival, if what she has with Nyssa is obedience or defiance, if it is strategy or love. She doesn’t think that Nyssa would abandon her or have her killed, even if their relationship burned out, but Sara’s not sure most days if she would survive what she had to do for the League unless she knew that somewhere, Nyssa’s arms, Nyssa’s bed were waiting for her. She wants desperately for Nyssa to be thrilled to see her, to have missed Sara as much as Sara has missed her. Sara just wishes she knew why she wanted this so badly.

She moves through Paris thinking about Nyssa and realizes that millions of others have fretted over their lovers as they roamed these exact streets. It’s strange to consider, and she wishes she had the time to look up those names of French authors and artists she used to care so much about.

As she walks by a long swath of store windows, then, she sees her reflection. A blonde woman in a long, cream colored wool coat, wearing high-heeled boots, carrying shopping bags from the finest shops of Paris. It was a strange image, and one that didn’t feel like her. It was like what she dreamed of as a little girl, being a glamorous woman who travelled the world, looking exactly like this.

Thinking of that little girl, of what she hoped to have in life, of the family who somewhere still thought of her as an innocent girl, sent a sharpness right in her gut, swelling up into her ribs. She felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She walked faster, as fast as she could without attracting attention, and headed for the most direct route to where she was meeting her driver. It was one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Paris, where a woman in an expensive coat and arms full of designer shopping bags wouldn't usually be seen, but she barely noticed her surroundings. She was concentrating on not falling apart, on getting to Nyssa before she lost herself completely.

She was only a few blocks away from her destination when a man jumped out of an alley and lunged at her with a knife.

She dropped the packages.

A fist to the neck, then leverage to break the arm and take the knife. Then his own blade, shoved deep into his thigh.

His blood splattered, rough and wild, out of his artery, but she kept the knife in him, dug even deeper as his blood stained her soft white coat a deep red.

When he lay dead on the ground, she looked at him for a minute, stared at his dead eyes. 

He had thought she was some little girl, ripe for the taking on a dangerous path. 

But Vattiyamma had taught her enough to walk any path she wanted.

Sara picked up the bags full of presents for Nyssa. There was blood on the outside, a little on the perfume box on the inside of one of the bags too. 

It wouldn't matter. Nyssa never minded a little blood.


End file.
